


You Among All Beings Have The Right To See Me Weak

by Tricki



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: After Nicola's America move is foiled, Bargains, Confessions, Episode 3.08, F/M, Friendship, Nicola drinks and Malcolm is honest, Political Campaigns, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tricki/pseuds/Tricki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the Ministers Malcolm expects to find pulling an all-nighter after the election is called, Nicola Murray is definitely not at the top of the list. As Malcolm begins to tumble into a verbal tirade he really should refrain from, he beseeches the God of Pissed Ministers to let there be a second bottle kicking around the office somewhere so that later, when she uses all this against him as she invariably will, he can write it off as her being paralytic. And also insane. Sadly Malcolm Tucker is not a man upon whom any deity has smiled. [Malcolm and Nicola discuss her foiled plans to move to America in 3.08, and Malcolm makes a rare admission.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Among All Beings Have The Right To See Me Weak

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own The Thick of It and I especially do not own the Pablo Neruda poem, 'The Hurt' which features at the beginning of this story, and from which the title is taken.  
> For my absent Shan xx

_"If I find nothing on which to support my harsh steps,_

__adored one, accept__

_my sadness and my anger,_   
_my enemy hands_   
_destroying you a little_   
_so that you may rise from the clay_   
_refashioned for my struggles"_

_~Pablo Neruda, 'The Hurt'_

 

Of all the Ministers Malcolm expects to find pulling an all-nighter after the election is called, Nicola Murray is definitely not at the top of the list.  She’s not at the bottom, with those who are both useless and have entitlement complexes, but she is certainly not at the top with the Ministers who are genuinely talented. 

Despite this, while Malcolm is doing his final breeze-through of all the departments, DoSAC is one of the few he finds still has any inhabitants.  All of Nicola’s staff are notably absent, but the desk lamp in her office is shining dimly.  Malcolm approaches it with some degree of trepidation, giving brief consideration to the wall of water-cooler bottles stacked along the left-hand wall.  What the fuck happens in this Department when he isn’t here?

 

Out of some warped sense of courtesy, Malcolm raps lightly on the open glass door when he peeks his head in.  The Secretary of State is sitting slumped over her desk, a bottle of wine in one hand and full glass in the other.  His knock makes her lift her head, and a sardonic smile pulls across her lips.

“Malcolm.  Tucker!  Malcolm Tucker, Malcolm-Tucker, Malcommm Tucke _rrrr_.”  She drawls with a kind of deranged glee.

“Hey, Nic’la.”  Malcolm says carefully, briefcase dangling heavily from his left arm.  He has never had to deal with her in quite this mood, and has decided to take the same approach he would around a wounded animal that has the very real capacity to kill him.  Normal Nicola wouldn’t make Malcolm bat an eyelid; current Nicola is really rather unnerving. 

“Malcolm!  Have you come to ruin my life some more?”  Anyone who knew her less well than Malcolm would mistake her tone for one of genuine merriment, but Malcolm can see past her politician’s smile to the fury in her eyes.  It’s not unwarranted, honestly.  She has every right to hate him, every right to tear him limb from limb, but he’s hoping he can spin himself out of her bad books.  She is easier to control when she at least thinks he has her best interests at heart.

 

“You would’ve hated America, Nic’la.”  He says it earnestly, depositing his briefcase by her office door and crossing to the window by her desk, where he perches against the sill.

“And how would you fucking know?!”  She bites back, clutching the wine bottle more tightly.  Malcolm wonders if he should be worried that it’ll be used as a weapon and bashed against his head repeatedly. 

“Because America’s big and hot and full of fucking Americans!”

“It’s a job at a fucking Ivy League university in Connecticut, Malcolm!  I wasn’t going to be stripping in a dive bar in Texas.”  She stares into her glass before downing a generous half of it in what Malcolm thinks is a fairly decent gulp.

“Well no one would fuckin’ pay fer that would they?”  Malcolm grumbles, earning a gold medal death glare from the Secretary of State. 

“D’you know what though, Malcolm?  It wasn’t actually about America, or Yale, or writing major economic policies, or _any_ of that.  I had a plan - good plan, you’d be proud of it.”  She stands now, and she’s steadier on her feet than he’d expected.  “So you know my husband?  My hateful fucking twat of a husband?  I was going to leave him.  Yeah.  I was going to move to America, and James was going to stay here with the kids for six months so they didn’t get pulled out of school.  And in six months no one will give a shit about the dozy bitch from DoSAC, and I could have filed for a divorce without the entire nation’s media standing on my doorstep.”

For possibly the first time since he’s known her, he feels the full implication his actions have had upon her.  He has cost her her freedom, and some part of Malcolm feels genuinely remorseful.  For once, all he can think of doing is being honest with her.

“Nic’la, if you’d gone - “

“-Don’t you fucking _dare_ give me that bullshit about me losing the election for us, Malcolm.  Even I’m not egotistical enough to think anyone gives a shit about DoSAC or any Minister who’s ever run it unless they’ve had a major fucking sex scandal.” 

She’s right, of course.  Her leaving would’ve created a RP ruffle, but nothing he couldn’t have smoothed out with barely a second thought.  Beyond that, nine times out of ten Nicola makes his life worse not better and his job harder not easier; he should have been leaping with joy when he found out she’d been offered a job on the other side of the world.  That he wasn’t is something he will find immensely troubling for a very long time indeed. 

“Would you fuckin’ let me speak, woman?”

“You always get to speak, Malcolm!  We’re the ones who get steamrolled every fucking second of our working lives - _usually by you_!”

“Well you don’t have any economic institute to fuck off to so I still fucking get to speak!”  Nicola does not wince from his words, even when he is shouting so loudly at her.  Virtually any other Minister would have, and some part of him which he tries to switch off during working hours respects her immensely for this.  ‘Respect’ and ‘Nicola Murray’ are not terms he ever expected to associate unless it was in reference to her dedication to yoga.

Nicola flops back into her chair, rotating it so that she is facing Malcolm and crossing her legs in the process.  He’s sure she’s totally unaware that her legs are terrible distractions to him, especially now that he can see she is barefoot, has noticed her stockings heaped gracelessly on her desk.  As Malcolm begins to tumble into a verbal tirade he really should refrain from, he beseeches the God of  Pissed Ministers to let there be a second bottle kicking around the office somewhere so that later, when she uses all this against him as she invariably will, he can write it off as her being paralytic and also insane.  Sadly Malcolm Tucker is not a man upon whom any deity has smiled.

“So this job, righ’?  This industry is fucking terrible.  This is like dyin’ of dehydration and dysentery in the middle of the desert.  While bein’ pecked to death by a flock of vultures.  But sometimes - and don’t get excited because it is very fuckin’ rare- but sometimes, Nic’la, I feel like, in the midst of the vultures and the fifty fuckin’ degree days and the chunks of skin flakin’ off from the sunburn, ye’re offering me a glass of water.  I fucking _hate_ to say this, but you’re a breath of fresh air around here when you’re not virtually destroying the entire government.”  His eyes drop to her knees before travelling back to meet hers; his face remains angled towards the floor, closed and guarded.  “The truth is, I like havin’ yeh around.”

 

If he expected her to soften at his words, for once he is profoundly mistaken.  If he wanted her to melt spectacularly at him proving he has some semblance of a functional heart, he is sorely, sorely disappointed.  Her face (which isn’t as smug and mumsy as he always insists it is) does not soften with compassion, but pinches in sheer irritation.

“Oh, pull the other one, Malcolm.  For fuck’s sake, I know you think I’m naïve and incompetent, but if you seriously expect me to believe that you turning down _my_ job offer has anything to do with you having some kind of personal proclivity for me then you are deranged.  NO, bad choice of word, you are completely fucking deranged!  I mean I knew you were an unscrupulous, manipulative little shit but this a whole new fucking level.”

Now Malcolm is at a loss, torn between fury that she has taken his earnest declaration as just another gambit in his manipulation play book and wanting to shout her straight because of this, and on the other hand tempted to take this small miracle of her disbelief as a gift from the Patron Saint of those Afflicted by Tucker. 

He rubs his hand over his face wearily.  Malcolm Tucker is tired to his bone marrow, and all the next months will bring is a frenzy of thankless work which will all be for naught in the end.  For the first time in his political life, Malcolm can hardly bear it.

 

“Call her.”  Malcolm says finally. 

“What?  Is this some kind of confusion tactic, Malcolm, because I fucking swear if you keep underestimating me like this -”

“Hannah.  Fucking call Hannah at yer Centre For Economic Wankery.”  He brings up the number and throws his phone onto her desk with a dangerous clatter.  Nicola’s eyes are wide.  Suddenly it occurs to her that there is a slim possibility he was being honest with her before, and somehow the idea that he has some affinity for her is even more terrifying than the idea that he hates her.

“Malcolm...” she breathes, eyes still locked on his ice blue ones.

“Fucking do it, woman! We’re going to lose the fucking election anyway so yeh might as well fuck off now and stop trying to pin all your future misery on me.”  He is shouting again, but now Nicola can sense the slight note of injury in his voice, as if her leaving is a personal affront rather than a professional decision.  As if she is leaving _him_ rather than the entire country. 

Snatching up his phone sharply he stuffs it back on his coat pocket.  “Fine, call her on yer own fucken’ time.  I’ll draft yer resignation speech.”  It does not escape Nicola’s notice that his voice has thickened, is wavering ever so slightly.  His fingers are less precise than usual, one of them catching on the edge of his pocket and bending at an angle that cannot possibly be comfortable.  On a man as generally composed as Malcolm Tucker, these little tells are incredibly revealing.

“Malcolm, stop”  Nicola’s words are soft and sharp all at once, and Malcolm wonders how she can affect such a tone.  It would be perfect for oral questions, if she were ever asked a question.  Or, for that matter, if she ever had anything reasonable to say.

When he turns back to her his eyes are hard, his face defensive.  He is unsure what she is aiming to achieve by halting him, and he is readying himself to verbally perform a full frontal lobotomy on her. 

“I’ll stay.”

Her words make him soften, tension in his chest releasing with dizzying immediacy, but the guilt he feels at denying her an escape from the entire clusterfuck that is her marriage is palpable.  Why he should feel any of these things is enough to make him white hot with fury again, although this time he cannot deny that his rage is at himself. 

“Fine.  Saves me the ten seconds’ work it’d take me to write ‘sorry I’m bent and totally fucking useless.  I’m finally resigning so yeh can stop hiding your fucking plastic toys in case I finally go through with the Barbie genocide.  Incompetently yours, Nicola Alison Murray.’”

“Oh, don’t you fucking dare pretend this isn’t a big deal now!  You’ve been fucking _begging_ me to stay.  And let’s be honest here Malcolm, the only thing I ever expected you to beg me for is my resignation or maybe a drunken shag.”

“Oh there’s my little world class egotist! Fucken hell, Nic’la, I wouldn’t go neat yer twat if the fucking Queen ordered me to on penalty of public sodomy.”

Nicola glares at him sullenly as she freshens her glass, and if she could see the look on her own face she would come crashing to the realisation that, yes, everyone is being honest when they tell her Katie is exactly like her. 

“You see, Malcolm, what’s happened here is: I have the upper hand.”

“Oh this’ll be a masterwork of self-delusion.  Explain to me, oh mighty Mrs Murray, exactly how _you_ , who can’t even manage to launch policies that you’ve fucking _written_ , have the upper hand in anything except maybe a second rate hand job?”

“Because you fucking _want_ me to stay!”  Exclaims the brunette, punctuating her sentence with a deep swig of her wine.  Her eyes are blazing victoriously, and once again, Malcolm preys to Dionysus that she doesn’t see through him as well as it seems she does right now.  That he would like to continue being able to drop into DoSAC and call her Glummy Mummy is deeply troubling to him.  That she might also fully comprehend that he wants this is nothing short of terrifying.  “And I can assure you, nothing about my hand jobs us second rate.”  A part of Malcolm’s brain which is never allowed any control of his limbs for very good reasons suddenly wants to ruin her, wants to knock the glass from her hand and have her there on the desk.  But then, Malcolm consoles himself, he is a hyperactive, overtired political adviser.  He’s probably thought about fucking all of the Ministers at least once, and in fairness it was Nicola who brought it up.  Sort of...

 

“So here’s the deal, Malcolm,” she begins, squaring her shoulders authoritatively.  It’s a trick Malcolm doubts even works on her staff, let alone him.

“Don’t try to fuckin’ bargain with me, sweetheart.  You don’t have the mental capacity.  Shit, you couldn’t even bargain a cut price shag from a rent boy.” 

All of a sudden Nicola’s shoulders begin to shake, and Malcolm is genuinely irritated that she might be crying.  When she brushes her hair back from her face he is surprised to find that, contrary to his initial thought, she is actually laughing, silently but very hard.  “You know, I actually had no fucking idea where I was going with that.  I mean, it’s not like I had an open ended offer which I could accept any time my Party spin doctor started driving me insane again.”

“Driving?”  Malcolm queries with a quirked eyebrow.

“Oh sod off, Malcolm.”  She says drily, taking another liberal sip of wine.

“And the Glummy Mummy goes in for another round.  Honestly, Nic’la, I’m quite impressed by how well ye’re putting that bottle away.”

“I’d offer you a glass, but that would deprive me of wine and make you think I don’t completely loathe you, so it’s very much a zero-sum-game for me.” 

In spite of himself, a light smile touches the corners of Malcolm’s mouth. 

With the glass halfway to her mouth again, Nicola arches an eyebrow and says “You are coming leafleting with me, though.”

“Excuse me?  It’s your fucking constituency, I don’t give a shit how many people end up with your face on a flyer in their clammy fucking hands.” 

Her eyes blaze with victory.  “You absolutely _do_ fucking care.”  She is, of course, correct.  Malcolm is irritated beyond description by this fact, but of course he cares.  He wants to win the fucking election, and sadly holding Nicola Murray’s seat is part of that.  She’s not at enormous risk, really, but the swing is well and truly on, and with a six percent margin her seat is in play. 

“Look, if you won’t help me then I might lose.  If I’m going to lose anyway, I might as well pick up the phone to Hannah right now...”  She says, and for the first time in some minutes Malcolm can see the affects the bottle of wine has had on her.  Nicola Murray would ordinarily deny that Malcolm has any positive influence over her career, certainly not infer that he may be necessary for her to win it.  Although, her logic is sound.  Turning down her job and not winning her seat would make the entire exercise a failure for Malcolm, and he is not a man comfortable with failure. 

“That’s line’s already gettin’ old, Nic’la.”  Malcolm cautions her.  Defiantly, Nicola reaches for her BlackBerry, and the Scot rolls his eyes wearily.  “When are you leaving?”

“Oh, sometime after the second bottle.”  The brunette replies, smiling mirthlessly.  Malcolm crosses back to her desk and lifts her office phone from its cradle, wedging it between his chin and his shoulder. 

“What are you doing?”  Nicola demands, sobering a little.

“Yeah, could you bring the Minister’s car around?  About fifteen minutes.  Ta.”  When he sets the phone down again he meets Nicola’s challenging gaze with a shrug.  “I’m not fucken’ campaigning with yeh if you get splashed over the papers stumbling drunk from this pathetic excuse of a Department the night the shitting election is called, am I?”

After a moment, Nicola’s shoulders release a little as she mentally backs away from the fight she was considering having with him.  “Fine.”  She concedes.  “Now get the fuck out of my office.”

At this moment Malcolm doubts there is a request he would more gladly fulfil.

 

 

A month later, when Malcolm is freezing his bollocks off at a farmers’ market in Hampstead, he is beginning to deeply regret his intervention.  The fact that once every seven days or so days Nicola makes a comment which is mildly amusing does not warrant spending his Saturday surrounded by hate-filled voters ready to pelt them with the overpriced organic grapes they’ve just purchased.  Despite this, Malcolm has to concede that Nicola is really very, very good with the punters.  She is friendly, warm, and inviting.  Rather than shy away from her when they first notice her, many of the constituents light up and go out of their way to speak to her.  Nicola recalls meeting some of them before, and even the Soulless Scot himself has to admit that he’s impressed with her.  Although, this could be partially due to the fact that he’s spent the week campaigning with Tom, and love Tom though he does (and he does, in his special Malcolm Tucker way), the Prime Minister is not exactly easy with the public, even in his own neighbourhood. 

Further to the fact that it is cold and Malcolm is not in the mood to suppress each of the snide comments he is dying to make, Nicola has insisted that he actually participates in handing out leaflets.  The Communications Director has informed her that it is nothing short of humiliating at least ten times today, in much more colourful language.  He has also attempted to convince her that this is really a task more befitting the dedicated cohort of volunteers at her beck and call.  Nicola had smiled beatifically at him mutely handed him an even bigger stack of leaflets.  God he fucking hates her.

 

So now here his is, trailing one of the minimally competent Ministers and trying not to terrify people when he offers them leaflets bearing a perfectly quaffed picture of her and the slogan _Caring for the Community._ Personally it makes Malcolm want to use them as target practice for projectile vomiting, but the communications specialist in him knows it’s the sort of messaging which appeals to a constituency with demography like hers. 

“I’m thinking we try some of the local produce on the way to the coffee, or I’m probably going to lose the ability to smile in the very near future.”

Malcolm shrugs at her suggestion, and at this point he rather resembles an animal that’s been beaten into submission.  Nicola isn’t sure if she should feel proud or slightly disappointed to lose her sparring partner.  As much as she would like to deny it, she’s leaning towards the latter.

“Thank you for being so enthusiastic, Malcolm.  I’m sure you’re swaying voters left, right, and centre.”  The brunette drawls disdainfully.

Malcolm’s voice drops to little more than a whisper and he tucks his shoulder behind hers so he can speak close to her ear.  “Hey, you fucking blackmailed me into being here, not playin’ happy political families with the Glummy Mummy.”

Nicola would very much like to elbow him in the solar plexus, but instead she mumbles “Make yourself useful and write down the coffee orders,” summons a smile and turns to her volunteers.  “We’re going to do a lap and grab some coffee.  Who wants what?”

As soon as the election is over Malcolm is going to make her suffer beyond words for carrying on like this.  Beyond.  Words. 

On their way through the market, Nicola pauses to chat to two women at a stall selling preserves.  They share a genuine laugh, and again, Malcolm is finally beginning to see the potential she has for holding a higher office than she already has. 

“Would you like to taste some?”  One of the women offers diffidently, as if Nicola is the supreme authority on what constitutes a good jam.

“I’d love to!”  The brunette enthuses, and at this point she’s drawn a little crowd of interested observers.  “What would you recommend?” 

“Um... the smoked cherry.  What do you think Jess?  The pear and kiwi?”

“Definitely.  And then the salted honey and apricot.”  Malcolm consciously keeps his face from revealing how traumatic he finds all of these options, but if Nicola feels the same she manages to valiantly hide it.

“Excellent!”  Personally Malcolm finds her enthusiasm trying, but it is note-perfect for the situation.

“Oh wow, that’s a really interesting flavour, isn’t it?  Very bold.”  She remarks upon tasting the smoked cherry jam.  Malcolm refrains from laughing; he’s sure the Secretary of State is fighting not to choke. 

 _Karma._   He thinks to himself as she praises the next offering.  On the apricot she makes a noise that only Malcolm can detect as one of genuine pleasure. 

“That is absolutely delicious.  Malcolm, taste this.”  The Scot flinches at being directly addressed for the first time in minutes, and tenses at the sight of the tiny corner of toast Nicola is offering him.  He doesn’t like being drawn into the situation, but accepts her offering.

“Tha’ is really good.”  Malcolm agrees, still wishing he were spending his Saturday doing literally anything else, even if the jam is exquisite. 

“How much for a jar of the apricot?”  Nicola asks, reaching for her purse.  Malcolm takes a brief moment to thank the god of Merciful Ministers that she has not insisted he carries her handbag.  She does it to Ollie often enough that Malcolm is not necessarily exempt. 

“Oh, don’t be silly!  It’s on us.”  One of the women insists.

“Are you sure?” 

“Of course.”

“Thank you so much.  Would you mind if I grab a quick photo?”  Nicola queries, passing her phone to Malcolm while the women are busy agreeing to her request.  Nicola slips behind the stall and loops her arms collegially around its owners, offering a blinding smile.  Once Malcolm has offered her a little nod, she turns with another warm round of ‘thank yous’ and embraces each of the women.  Again, Malcolm is grudgingly impressed with how personable she is.  Then again, she had to have at least one strength, didn’t she?

“‘Just picked up some delicious jam from Jess and Cath at Preserving You, hashtag HSFM’.  Happy?”

“Yep, that’s fine.”  Nicola replies, casting her eyes over the tweet Malcolm has drafted from her phone.  If job offers are all it takes to make Malcolm into her personal lap dog she really should start investigating this option more often.

 

Once Nicola has shaken all the hands offered to her they break away from the crowd and continue their search for coffee.  “Oh my god, the cherry was like sugary asbestos.”  Nicola whispers to her companion, who snorts a laugh and tries to suppress a smile.

“Hate to admit it, but ye’re not actually completely incompetent with the constits.”

“High praise from Glasgow’s Genghis Khan.”

“I only tell yeh you’re shit when you’re shit, alright?”

“That comforts me enormously.  It truly does.”  Even though their words are laced with disdain, there is an ease between them, a lightness which belies the bitterness of their snipes. 

“And look, yeh couldn’t do this in America.  You’d just get jars of sugar with no asbestos laced cherries.”

Nicola laughs genuinely then.  “Sadly accurate I suppose.” 

After another moment of a rare comfortable silence, Malcolm again rejects his better judgement and says “Look, if you repeat this I’ll deny it, righ’?  But I’m glad you stayed.”

Nicola turns her head and studies him quietly.  One day she’s sure she’ll work out exactly what that faraway look in his eyes can be attributed to.  Today she simply turns back to the grassy path before her and quietly replies “Yeah.  Me too.”

 


End file.
